


After the Next: Invitation

by slasher48



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Post-Deposition, Power Play, Teasing, almost lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slasher48/pseuds/slasher48
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The suit is going to be ruined.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Next: Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> [For this.](http://tsn-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/8388.html?thread=14548420#t14548420)

  
The suit is going to be ruined.  
  
Mark’s already sure of it and he’s been against the wall for less than six hundred seconds. But against the wall is his favorite place to be: his legs almost wrapped around slim hips, his cock held away from pressure but gifted with tantalizing warmth.  
  
It’s not like it matters. Chris picked it out, and he’s already well aware Mark has to have it dry-cleaned every time there’s a conference in New York. There’s nothing he’ll be able to do about the tie, though; the tie has been effectively ruined beneath sharp, shiny shoes that Mark doesn’t recognize as anything but expensive.  
  
“Oh. _Shit_ ,” Mark gasps, digging his fingers in, licking his already wet lips as their counterparts pull away to fasten onto his neck and leave a mark so dark he’s aware how visible it’ll be even through his starched white collar. It won’t be the first time – and Chris is aware of _that_ part too, thank God.  
  
“Mm,” is all he gets, all the response he’s allowed this early in the game, as his mouth is taken again, tongued skillfully, drawn forward when it’s let go, only ever left wanting for long enough that he’ll make furiously embarrassing sounds before it’s occupied once more.  
  
He buries his fists in soft hair and gives as much as he can back, rocking his hips and whining incoherently as he traces the line of perfect teeth when he’s still offered nothing in the way of friction. It’s not like he expected even the suggestion, but every time, it’s a disappointment.  
  
A sharp bite on his top lip, almost enough to bruise the sensitive, already half-ravaged flesh, takes his attention away from the lack, though, and he moans, head falling back to the wall as his legs sag.  
  
“ _Wardo_.”  
  
Eduardo grins, holding Mark’s hips back as always and leaning in once more, just nipping now, just nipping and then rubbing and then licking, as Mark tries for more and, inevitably, fails. Eduardo has kept the upper hand through every single encounter similar to this, and he seems unlikely to relinquish the power any time soon.  
  
Still, Mark’s no limpet, he’s no damsel, he’s no fucking _submissive_ , and he’ll try every fucking second he gets the chance; bucking up against Eduardo’s pressing fingers, he whips his head close enough to bite at Eduardo’s jaw and _relishes_ the surprised, turned on sound he makes.  
  
“ _Ah!_ ”  
  
Eduardo recovers faster as always– and how? How does he even do that _every_ time? Mark has yet to figure that one out, and it irks him, as do all puzzles he’s not solved – and kisses Mark hard, the best so far, tipping his chin upward with an insistent three fingers and scraping his other hand down, down, down Mark’s body, over the flawlessly cut clothing, with so much intent that Mark feels every touch on his skin even clothed and shivers with involuntary delight.  
  
“Fuck,” he groans, as Eduardo finally pulls away, leaving his mouth sore and aching, and drifts along his neck, unbuttoning Mark’s shirt far too expertly for his comfort (because he can’t be that good with just Mark, he has to have done this with someone else, right?) and sucking kisses into the tendons and muscles that flex so opportunely when Mark gulps down too much air— and never enough, fuck, _he can never get enough_ when Eduardo does that.  
  
And then Eduardo’s _biting_ again, a throaty growl of his name caught against Mark’s skin as he leaves a mark to match the first and pulls off, scraping the bottom set of those _fucking_ perfect teeth on the fresh bruise and sending sharp, paralyzing shudders through Mark until his cock is pulsing, jerking against his trousers, making him miss his baggy shorts more than anything (well, maybe not _anything_ , but the other thing is kind of there at the moment) right then.  
  
The moment Eduardo’s mouth slips back onto his, like a glove, that perfect, no matter how it chafes, he comes, grunting out these noises he never makes except during occasions like this as Eduardo licks at the corners of his lips and worries his bottom lip between those stupidly skilled teeth. Eduardo smiles, his brown eyes not nearly as wide and upset as they used to be, narrow and selfishly satisfied instead in a way that makes aftershock after aftershock rip through Mark just looking at them, even when he’s sunk low on the wall and lost the ability to comprehend what he’s even gazing at.  
  
Smugly, Eduardo whispers, “Again, huh?” and it should be long past the time when Mark would still blush over creaming himself making out (especially with Eduardo, Jesus Christ, this has happened far too much for him to still be so _humiliated_ ) but he does, unsurprised and unimpressed by the pink he feels blotching his pale skin, staring at the floor like he’s a goddamned virgin again. He might as well be, going by the unbelievably ridiculous way his body reacts to Eduardo.  
  
“Shut it, Wardo,” he says softly, with no malice but more than enough righteous indignation to take its place. He’s really getting a little perturbed by these sessions, which inevitably result in Mark coming in his pants and Eduardo making fun of his completely involuntary (and uncontrollable, he hastens to add) actions, or whatever, reactions. To Eduardo, like he’s said.  
  
Eduardo nods, but the respect for Mark’s dignity doesn’t extend to the still laughing lightening of his brown eyes or the naughtily amused curve of his dark and swollen mouth. Nor does it do anything to make him hide the still impressive bulge in his own black trousers, a bulge Mark has progressed through these meetings to wanting to touch with _mortifying_ intensity. He actually has to bite back the words _Let me_ , because he’s not giving that part up yet; he’s still got that card to play, and as long as he holds something away, Eduardo will keep trying to get at it.  
  
As is evident by the increasingly uncomfortable stain, Mark _really_ likes Eduardo’s attempts to get at it.  
  
“How many times are you going to do this, Wardo?”  
  
Mark can never resist asking him that, even though he very rarely answers, and definitely never to any sort of satisfaction of Mark’s. This time, he only lets one impeccably shaped brow rise high above those eyes that mock him entirely too effectively for being fucking _eyes_ , prompting Mark to continue.

Mark’s a sucker, the _biggest_ sucker, for adding,  
  
“Is it some kind of terribly amateur control exercise? You’ll stop when I make it through without…”  
  
Mark’s blush deepens as Eduardo smirks, and he can’t say it, no matter how many times he’s done it; he refuses to admit aloud the more than inconvenient conclusion of Eduardo’s attentions until it’s a thing of the past.  
  
(Unfortunately, that might be at a time when the attentions themselves are a thing of the past as well.)  
  
“I think the question is more how many times you’re going to _allow_ it, Mark…” but Eduardo pauses, as though weighing his words, as though _Mark_ is the one with the upper hand for once, for a second – _wow is that untrue_ – before muttering a little more quietly,  
  
“…How long you’ll wait before you actually _do_ what you have to do to get me to give more.”  
  
Stunned, Mark finds his usual sharp diatribes and mocking inquiries nowhere near coming to mind, and by the time he’s able to voice more than confused, insecure gibberish, Eduardo has gone.  
  
For a long, long moment he just rests where he’s leaning heavily on the wall and thinks.  
  
Then his lips tilt up before he’s even come to a conclusion, because if there’s anything in those words, if there’s _anything_ he can see, after years of an education in the mislaid cues and misconstrued aims of people and how sometimes they can _both_ be worthy of his attention, it’s…  
  
Invitation.  
  
An invitation he fully intends to accept, to apprehend and utilize to his advantage next time.  
  
Lifting his phone to his ear, Mark dials Chris and walks away from the large hall where the networking to-do is being held, leaving his crumpled tie and the (far more relevant to his interests) man who ruined it behind for now.  
  
“Chris? Yes. Yeah, yes, no, Chris, please don’t ask. I need a car and – naturally. It’s not as if I can wear this again the way it _is_ …”  
  
“…Don’t you _dare_ tell Dustin. He thinks this stopped a long time ago.”  
  
“Yes, there may be things, more things, _important things_ , to tell later.”  
  
“ _No_ , I will not elaborate. Get me a car and get me a cleaner and ask me after the _next_ bullshit wine-tasting and ass-kissing event you send me to.”  
  
Mark hangs up; the smirk has never left his face.  
  
_After_.  
  
The _next_.


End file.
